


can we always be this close?

by myownprivate-utah (allofthepixels)



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: Body Language, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:14:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26407801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allofthepixels/pseuds/myownprivate-utah
Summary: A slow, soft and lazy day where you just get to soak in the ridiculous gooey intimacy and make plans with someone you love and wanna grow with.
Relationships: Keanu Reeves/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	can we always be this close?

This thing the two of you had was good. You knew that by now. What started out as a surprising friendship (similar humor, similar coffee orders, vastly different worlds) stumbled into something deeper, something full of humor and warmth that still felt too precious for you to stick words to it — even nearly a year in.

You watched Keanu whenever you got the chance. And it wouldn’t be unfair to say you have grown more bold and shameless about it the longer you spent time together. It’s not because he’s beautiful — he is that, of course, in a supernatural eye-twitch inducing way that you grumble about to your friends, your therapist and the man himself.

It’s because of all the things his face and his shoulders and his bouncing knees can tell you even if he says nothing at all.

So this slow, boring day in that sweet spot where summer gives fall a proper kiss goodbye is a prime opportunity to indulge as you both lay on your porch together and chip away at a bit of work. The coffees he brewed you both have gone cold on the trunk-turned table you keep out here. You’ve got a few papers you’re meant to be grading in your lap that you’ve barely touched (they’re for a senior ethics seminar and you imagine you can sit on them another week without getting too harsh a side-eye from your students) and Keanu is flipping back and forth between the front and tail-end of a script he’s been considering for a few weeks.

He looks soft and younger today: a worn-to-death henley and joggers that are in the dictionary under “threadbare” and a chunky hand-knitted beanie keeping his long hair out of his otherwise pretty scruffy face. Despite it being such an expensive, recognizable face, he’s been able to fly under the radar on his visits to the college town you live and work in all summer long (provided he doesn’t linger too long in the record store or the coffee shop – and even then, he seemed to have a talent for charming whoever clocked him with an autograph or a conversation that made sure they didn’t blow up his spot.)

His long limbs are stretching just about across the width of the porch — from the bordering-on-painful rocking chair he picked up at the flea market (and stubbornly insisted was “very firm, good for your back,” as he placed it carefully into the bed of your truck) to the railing next to the much comfier bench cushion set-up you’re stretched out on. He bites at the nail on his thumb and looks up at you briefly, and the smile lines around his eyes warm his face when you catch his gaze. He shifts back with one of his shy little smiles and, sometimes, you admit to only yourself, that’s enough to crack your chest right open.

Periodically, when he’s reading a script like this (deep active reading, like he’s trying to imagine one of the ways it could play out on camera and how he might fit in it) he’ll sort of sprawl out and change positions. It’s sudden, almost as if he’s jumping between scenes and he’ll be leaning over a crossed knee, tapping fingers on his chin; he’ll be bouncing his leg in anticipation as he eagerly follows the action; he’s wide-legged with an arm hanging over the back of the chair or in a gargoyle-like perch that sends his chair creaking (and has sent him rocking straight out of his flea market-find and onto the floor on more than one occasion).

You have a feeling he’s circling the drain on a “yes” for this one. He’s shared some doubts — his worry about heading into a territory too “heady” or “too interior” that audiences/critics won’t “get.” But there’s also few tells: the quirk of his lips when he mouths along a line or two, the way he doesn’t let out a sigh before explaining roughly “what its about,” and the tell-tale coffee stains (and a few rogue cigarette burns), tears and sticky notes hanging out along the edge of the pages. He’s a sucker for story.

“You stare a lot for someone who doesn’t know how to fight,” he says low, without raising his eyes off the page he’s examining. “Creep.”

That smile’s back, but he’s shifting his book mark (a binder clip you use to keep your chip bags closed that he stole) and transitions in a smooth step to sit next to you, lifting your legs in his lap.

“So you keep saying,” you shift to get comfortable, settling half in his lap, with a hand resting warm and big and comfortable on your knee like it belongs there. “So this a Georgia, Australia or upstate kinda shoot?”

“I haven’t even called my agent to confirm it yet,” he chuckles, leaning closer and letting his other hand graze your cheek, brushing some hair out of your face. “But, of course, you knew.”

You reach up to touch his hair, letting the papers on your lap hit the floor. Your pen is rolling somewhere you’ll have to locate later (they were _always_ gonna end up there) and you're inching close so you could press a kiss at the corner of his mouth. You love the way his hand tightens softly at the back of your neck.

“I knew there was something inspiring drop-kicking its way into your brain,” you pull back and tap lightly at his temple. “It’s a good look on you, is all.”

He sits with what you said and you can see it turn a bit in his features (another thing you love about Keanu) as he considers what he’ll say next.

“It’s an upstate kinda shoot, by the way,” he says, your foreheads close. “I was thinking, we could rent a place, you and me — between the college and where we’ll be filming — and just be together? I can ride one of my bikes to work and you can take your ancient death trap truck— which I will only complain about on snowy days and rainy days and sunny days where its battery dies for no good reason.” You make a face, but already know your answer.

“Lay off the truck, mister,” you jab at his side. “She passed her inspection and deserves respect in her old age.”

Keanu raises an eyebrow that clearly articulates that mix of amusement and soft disapproval you know so well when you talk about it.

“But, really,” he squirms underneath you and grabs for your hands. “I want this,” he gestures with his free hand, “every day. I want you there to help me run lines and to tell me when I’m overthinking something dumb and I want to sneak into your lectures and bring you coffee and jump your ailing car in the morning. I want us.”

You watch his face closely, the sweet smile lines, the lazy too-long-to-be-considered stubble and notice his knee’s subtle bounce.

“I want us too.”


End file.
